Kadaitcha
By Michael Aulfrey
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Author's Note: this is actually a crossover with something else,
but it would spoil the story to say what. Anyway, all rights
reserved to them and Chris Carter and 10-13 productions.
All except the characters of Robert Crawford and Charles Duggan,
who are soon to be released in an action doll line. :) :) :)
I'd rate this story NC-17 for the occasional violence in it.
It doesn't have any sex scenes.
It's also an attempt at an international X-File, and actually
the first I tried to write. All kinds of feedback are welcome.
Tell me if you'd like to see more of the characters or the
international setting!
Other than that, enjoy, everyone!!! :) :)
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Prologue:
Frank Mereweather finished up at 11:00 pm. He called for last
drinks and put the beer away as the regulars staggered outside to
their dust-laden trucks. He said goodnight to Christine as she
picked up her purse and left the pub. The flyscreen door banged
loudly in her wake. A fine girl, Christine. Sure as hell
deserved more than what was available to her in this town. He'd
seen her mother a couple of days ago--apparently Christine was
doing well at school; her reports had been close to straight-As.
Which was pretty good for a kid who had only ever been to school
twice in her life. That was for her Year 11 exams, down in the
city. Rest of the time, she studied with an ear close to the
radio; the School of the Air was very efficient.
Frank wasn't like her. Not that he didn't understand the
advantages of getting a better education. But Frank had lived in
this town for thirty years. It was as much a part of him as the
sand and dirt of his home. He sighed. No, he wouldn't have given
this away for the world.
He turned off the lights and locked the door. It creaked closed.
It was in need of a repaint. Like most of the wooden and asbestos
houses in the town. But it was home.
The night was warm but clear; the stars twinkled brightly on a
carpet of ebony above. Frank went to his car--an old station-
wagon showing more dents and scratches than a car of its age ought
to have. The engine roared to life quickly, despite the hours of
standing in the day. He peeled out of the carpark and out onto
the gravel road, dust misting behind him and the headlights cones
of brilliance reaching down the road.
Frank didn't live "in town"; he had a small shack about ten miles
out, near Starkey's Creek. Which was a misnomer. It was a light
watercourse, only flowing in the wet season and then only with a
heavy fall of rain. The last time he'd seen rain had been when he
was almost flooded out.
The memories of that time returned as he reached the place. He'd
had to move up onto higher ground. Onto what the Aboriginals of
the area called Yurrina, but the rest of the world called
Beazley's Hill. That had been a bad time. In amongst the rock
paintings left there by former residents, he'd shivered, and
waited for the rain to stop. Surprisingly, the shack had stayed,
and the water had taken nothing except the old outhouse down by
the creek....
He got out of the pickup, breathing in the clear air. Even the
town, as it was, had an aura of pollution over it that the mass of
human bodies concentrated together in the same place generated.
Some young man had come up from the city one time for some reason,
and over a drink he got to talking with Frank. Eventually, the
multiple beers took effect, and when the doctor had heard Frank's
story, he'd called it agoraphobia. Fear of crowds, or something
like that. Another reason for not living in town.
He breathed again, the rushing of air loud in his ears. He
stopped, curious. It was quiet. Really quiet. No crickets. No
frogs. He couldn't even hear a dingo howl in the distance, and
tonight was a full moon. Strange. Frank slammed the door of the
car, the sound unnaturally loud in the heavy stillness. He walked
towards the house. His shoes crunched heavily on the remains of
the gravel driveway. Reached the front porch. Wooden floorboards
creaked under him. The door was in front of him, a beaten,
weather-torn thing. The doorknob creaked under his hand, and he
thrust open the door towards whatever lay within.
The door banged against the wall of the house. Nothing. Nothing
materialised from the shadows. No burglar, no wolf, no razorback-
--what a joke of a movie that was, he chuckled to himself. Frank
grunted and closed the door behind him, switching on the lights.
He scrounged in a pocket for the day's takings and tossed it onto
the table.
Still that quiet. He would have expected the animals to resume
their chatter once he'd gone out of their territory, but inside
the house it was quiet as the proverbial tomb.
For a moment.
Then the squeal came. It was a high-pitched, guttural screech,
little better than an animal's, really, and it sounded close
enough for Frank to spin around as if it was behind him. Nothing.
The house was quiet, dark.
Frank headed for the closet, threw it open. Standing inside was
the .22. The most chances at hunting the locals got around here
was the occasional rabbit or fox--a legacy from their colonial
ancestors--but everyone hung onto some sort of weapon. Deaths
from hitchhikers had happened around here. Man and woman knew to
keep guns and use them. Frank grabbed the gun, chambered a round
and stalked over to the front door. He switched on the outside
light, then threw open the door, his body retracting into an
aiming posture.
Nothing. No movement. He panned the muzzle of the gun around a
bit. So what the---?
He saw it at the edge of the pool of light generated by the lamp
above him. It was big and furry. Not moving. Frank's finger
almost tightened on the trigger, but he spotted the dark stain
spreading from its midsection. Blood. Frank took a cautious step
down off the verandah, closer to the thing. Now he saw it, and
his finger eased off the trigger. Speak of the devil. A
razorback. Feral pig. Big as the boars those little guys ate in
Asterix comics. Hadn't been too many around, since the government
declared them vermin. Still less, with the hunting population of
the town.
He heard something behind him. From the house itself. He spun
around again, finger back on the trigger.
But he didn't fire.
The sheer sight of it precluded that.
And its eyes were almost hypnotic. Like pools of phosphorus in
the air. He was looking into those eyes and they came at him and
oh God something smashed into his abdomen but he couldn't even
scream because the scream was lost in those eyes and he thought
he'd spin into infinity with them and all of a sudden he was
falling red rain around him and those eyes those eyes those
eyes....
His last sensation was hearing the crickets quietly resume their
song.
* * *
KADAITCHA
Fox Mulder, special agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation, had
had enough. He'd seen a lot of blood in his time, but the scene
in the hotel reception area was beyond anyone's comprehension. It
just showed that the child pornography industry was getting better-
armed all the time. And, it seemed, better-informed.
Of course the bust had gone bad. The two officers coming in the
front door had run straight into a hail of bullets from the
receptionist herself when she swung an Uzi into view and sprayed
the room from left to right. One of them was caught in the head
and shoulders; the other's Kevlar had left him with enough
strength to squeeze off a couple of wild shots as he fell. He got
lucky; the receptionist's chest was a spray of gore even as they
went down.
The other officers crashed through the door as the hired toughs
came in with pistols loaded, and the place had erupted into
bedlam. Meanwhile, Mulder, Scully and the others had gone through
the back. A lack of chivalry had saved his life.
They'd gotten their evidence. The photographs of pale, young
bodies in various circumstances were still drying in the
darkrooms. Invasion of further rooms revealed reams of material
prepared for publication. And yet the boss got clear, killing one
officer who tried to arrest him with a nightstick and a pair of
handcuffs. Mulder could deal with that. What he couldn't was the
blood and horror. In his ears, the Code Ones and cries for
ambulances rang like a funeral dirge, until he had to walk outside
and take in a couple breaths of air. And there he'd remained for
the past hour or so now, sitting there on a low ornamental wall,
watching as the photographers went in and the black bags rolled
out.
Scully's approach was quiet, despite her shoes, and with his eyes
closed he wasn't aware of her until she spoke. "Maybe you should
go back to the office, Mulder. I can finish this up myself."
"I'm fine."
She paused, and even with his eyes closed, he could see her chew
the inside of her lip. "How long has it been since you got any
sleep?"
The stakeout had taken longer than he'd estimated. Twelve hours,
no relief. "I can stay awake long enough." He took a deep
breath. "What've we got?"
Scully's gaze bored into him for a moment longer, then she
shrugged and glanced back in the direction of the hotel. "Pretty
well everything we need. Guns, photographs, mailing addresses--I
guess they thought they could take on Washington's finest and
win."
"Everything except Rezatti himself."
"We've got his passport, and an officer or two on all of his usual
haunts. He can't run that far."
"Skinner's going to be mad as hell."
"I don't think so. He's got all the evidence he needs and more.
We just need Rezatti now."
Mulder stood up and looked towards the hotel. "We'd better finish
it, then."
"Mulder."
He turned towards her.
"Relax. I'm not having much more success than you with this
thing."
He nodded slowly, and they walked back up towards the hotel.
* * *
Saturday came and went, Mulder spending most of it writing up the
report for the forced entry of the premises housing Rezatti's
ring. He'd expected to be able to sleep in on Sunday, but the
phone trilled in his ear at 8:00 am, rousing him from a dreamless,
recuperative sleep.
"Mulder," he mumbled into the phone.
"Skinner," answered the voice on the other end, hard as an iron
bar. Damn. The guy had decided to tear into him after all. And
on a Sunday, no less. "I need you at the office, Mulder. It's
urgent."
He focused on the words, his brain carefully putting them together
and considering their implications. It was a good three seconds
before he was wide awake. "Sir...is it a---"
"Be here by 8:45. Don't keep me waiting." And the phone rang off
in his hand.
* * *
Like several large law firms, it was common practice at the F.B.I.
that on weekends, the employees could dress fairly casually, since
they weren't per se on duty. Of course, a number of agents did in
fact go on Saturdays to continue their work, and the level of
casualness did go to jeans and T-shirts in some cases. But one
didn't observe such a dress standard when meeting with Deputy
Director Walter F. Skinner--weekends or otherwise. Rumour had it
that the last agent who did got himself booted all the way back to
stakeouts. So only a stream of suits came in and out of Skinner's
office.
Mulder made it to Skinner's office at 8:41, notwithstanding the
traffic between his house and F.B.I. headquarters. Scully was
outside waiting, looking no less dishevelled for the early call
she'd gotten.
"I was worried you wouldn't make it," she said as Mulder walked
over to her.
"There was a traffic accident on the freeway," Mulder said, gazing
at the frosted glass of Skinner's office door. Vague dark shadows
moved behind it. "Who's he got with him?" Scully shrugged.
"They've been in there since I arrived. One of the higher-ups,
maybe."
"On a Sunday? That's not like Skinner. He's usually at golf this
time in the morning."
"We'll know soon enough."
No sooner had she said that than the door opened, and Skinner
appeared. "Scully; Mulder. Come in, please."
Please? Mulder directed a glance in Scully's direction. She
raised her eyebrows in reply.
Inside the office were another woman and a man. The woman's
identity was simple enough; Jennifer Benson, the legal attache to
the Australian embassy here in Washington. Mulder and Scully knew
of her by experience, but she introduced herself formally anyway.
The identity of the second man was more of a mystery. He was
tall, tanned. Black hair. Freckles spattered his face like a bad
paint job. His uniform was curious. Not the standard Washington
cop's uniform, but instead a deeper, darker blue matched by gold
studs and other regalia. But a cop's uniform nonetheless. Not
American. That was all.
"Mr. Crawford, I'd like you to meet Special Agent Mulder; Special
Agent Scully," said Skinner, timing his words to their respective
handshakes. "This is Robert Crawford, from the Australian Federal
Police, Homicide Division."
"A pleasure," said Crawford, and immediately that thick Australian
accent was apparent. At the memory of "Crocodile Dundee", Scully
couldn't help but smile slightly. But then she frowned
slightly...Robert Crawford...
Mulder turned to Skinner. "So what's the story?"
Skinner looked at the Australian. "The F.B.I. is participating in
an ongoing scheme where we take in police from other,
international jurisdictions and train them in certain advanced
police enforcement techniques. I think you'd know about this from
your work at the Academy, Scully."
The memory clicked. "Yes. I remember now. Mr. Robert Crawford.
Graduated top of your class, I believe."
He gave a self-depreciating little shrug. "I had good teachers."
Then he turned serious, and before Skinner had a chance to go on,
he spoke. "We might as well cut through the red tape. I came
here because I need your help. Your particular help." He
produced a folder and handed it to Mulder. "The photographs are
of Frank Mereweather, a proprietor of a local hotel. Three days
ago he was murdered at his home at Starkey's Creek, Western
Australia. It's my jurisdiction out there, so I took a look at
the file. The regular force don't want to look at it, now that
federal police have intervened." Mulder was looking at the
photographs. Standard black-and-whites of the murdered man in his
position. "The photos look normal, but there are some interesting
anomalies here which I can't quite explain. I'd heard at the
Academy that you two were really into this kind of thing, so I
thought I'd ask for a little help from my teachers." Mulder
turned an amused eye on Scully, now--seemingly--identified with
his own "spooky" ideas.
But Scully had the photographs, flicking through them one at a
time. "What kind of anomalies?"
Crawford looked hesitantly at Benson and Skinner. "Trust me; it's
right up your street, as I think they say here."
Mulder looked at Skinner. "Are there any jurisdictional problems
if we go, sir? What exactly would we be doing?"
"Well, the Director hasn't got a problem with you two taking a
quick vacation. As far as anybody else is concerned, you'd be on
exchange to Australia to observe their investigatory techniques.
The department's approved it, so there's nothing stopping you
going."
They looked at Crawford. "I think we'd better pack our sunblock,
then," said Mulder.
* * *
Qantas was the safest airline in the world, without a single crash
in its seventy-year history. Flight 567 out of Washington over
the Pacific to Sydney International Airport, then a brisk walk to
a connecting cross-country flight to Perth, the capital of Western
Australia. They touched down at midday. Crawford was there to
meet them as they emerged from the passenger egress into the
terminal.
"Good to see you again," he said. "We've got another connecting
flight to Geraldton, about 300 kilometres north of here. There's
a car waiting there that will take us to Starkey's Creek."
The plane that took them to Geraldton was a smaller jet. Unlike,
so Crawford said, the turboprop aircraft that worked the southern
air routes. Then conversation turned to the murder. Crawford
handed them another file. "This is the information which the
local police wouldn't touch. You see, we haven't conducted a full
autopsy on Mereweather yet, but even from external evidence it's
plain that this wasn't a simple shooting."
"If it was, you wouldn't have called us," Scully pointed out.
"Exactly. Anyway, Frank Mereweather was killed five days ago
outside his house, give or take twelve hours. They found a loaded
.22 rifle next to him, but I think you'll see it's plain that he
wasn't shot." Mulder pulled out a photo, looked at it. Handed it
to Scully, who raised her eyebrows.
"Was he found like this?"
"Yeah. Forensics think some of the damage might have been done by
scavengers. Dingoes, crows, that sort of thing. But whatever it
was that killed him was a lot bigger than any scavenger. There's
some small maceration and tearing around the main wound from the
animals when they came to have their share of his body, but the
fatal cut, so far as we could see, was about a metre long and
ripped him from neck to sternum. We're not sure whether it was
made by a large knife, but maybe you can tell us more."
"There's nothing really unexplainable here," said Scully, "Murders
have been known to have been perpetrated by people waving swords
around. What's wrong with the picture?"
"The rest of it. It's like he cut himself to pieces. The reason
Forensics was so careful with their examination was because they
didn't have anything else to work on. We've got no footprints,
one set of tyre tracks from the poor sod's car going in. And
Starkey's Creek is mostly sandy soil. If there were any
footprints, we should've seen them."
Scully took another photo, stared at it. The item in the frame
was not human. Unmistakably animal. And large. "What's this?"
"Oh, yeah, there's that, too. About four metres from Frank's body
they found a feral pig dead, killed in much the same way. Large
slit in the abdomen. We estimate the times of death to be
concurrent or close to it."
"Was it the victim's?"
"No. He didn't have any pets. Nice bachelor, by all accounts.
No wife or children. Owned a pub but didn't make enough for it to
be profitable. Just your average bloke. No hidden caches of
money or anything that would make anyone want to kill him."
"He had a gun, though," said Mulder, one eyebrow raised. He'd
heard about the strictness of Australian law on that point.
Crawford shrugged. "Everyone out here has a gun, agent Mulder.
It's common practice. Rabbits, foxes--anything feral qualifies as
vermin. And they're pests enough so that they're worth wasting
bullets on."
"Just your regular holiday camp," said Mulder.
Crawford looked evenly at him. "I realise the rest of the world
probably sees the average Australian as a back-country Paul Hogan,
agent Mulder, but unlike America, most of the country is desert.
Bad things can happen out there. People insure themselves." He
nodded at the photographs. "And sometimes your policy comes up."
Mulder was rational. "There still isn't enough here that says
it's out of the ordinary. You haven't got any footprints, but
that doesn't mean the murderer couldn't have come in from another
direction."
"You're still not listening," replied Crawford quietly. "Maybe
you'll understand better when you actually get a look at the
site."
END OF PART 1/7.